


An Archivist

by Arazsya



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Double Drabble, Drabble Sequence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multifandom Drabble Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arazsya/pseuds/Arazsya
Summary: Martin should have been faster to react, when the lights went out.





	An Archivist

Martin should have been faster to react, when the lights went out. Maybe there's nothing he could have done, but he could have tried, could have done something, anything, instead of just staring stupidly into the darkness. It didn't even occur to him that he might be able to reach the knives until something hard closes around his neck and yanks him sideways.

"Hello!" The voice is cheerful, vowels unnaturally stretched.

Martin doesn't know what he tries to say, but it doesn't matter. It only comes out in a strangled squeak.

"We're looking for a skin," the monster says, and there's an awful, hushed excitement to it. "Do you think you can help?"

_No_ , Martin tries to say, but he can't get the air into his lungs.

"That's all right," the monster says, and her grip loosens just enough that he can breathe again. "We'll just have to use the Archivist instead."

"I'm not the Archivist," Martin whispers, voice croaking. _Traitor_ , he thinks. _Traitor_. Wishes he could take it back, that those hard fingers were still pressed around his windpipe.

"No," she says, still with that absurd, cutting brightness. "But you're _an_ Archivist." Leans in a little closer. "You'll do."

* * *

"You're safe," Jon murmurs. "It's all right now."

Martin, head pillowed in Jon's lap, says nothing. He faces outward, and Jon's selfishly glad that the only bruises he can see are the ones on his own hand, where it rests against Martin's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he tries, and that feels like something he should say, something he should have said a long time ago, so he says it again, over and over, doesn't even think Martin's hearing him. The words should lose their meaning, eventually, but they don't. Every time he utters them, they wrench at his chest. "I'm sorry."

"Jon," Martin says, like his name is the only thing in the world with meaning. His voice still shakes, can't manage much volume. "Not your fault."

Jon exhales, tightens his fingers on Martin's shoulder. There's no use in fighting the point. He'll just have to do better.

Martin shifts in his lap, rolls over to look up at him. There's a wildness about his eyes that Jon knows from experience will take longer to heal than the rope burns on his wrists.

He wants to promise nothing like this will ever happen again, that he won't let it. He can't.


End file.
